Deep Blue

by Aishling Morgan

  The brunette had been unbuttoning her blouse, but now shrugged it off, revealing a neat white bra over pert breasts. She reached back, and his heartbeat rose as she put her fingers to the catch, tugged and the bra fell away, leaving her breasts bare and pink to the sun, two round little handfuls of well-formed girl meat. Joe steadied his binoculars, watching as she put her hands to her jeans, unzipped, pushed and down they came, taking her panties with them in a tangle of pale-blue cotton. Kicking them from her feet along with her shoes, she stood nude, only to pull a pair of bikini pants from her bag and slip them on.

  Despite a flush of disappointment he kept watching, hoping they might grow bolder. Both lay on their towels, face down, the blonde removing her bikini as if she was on a crowded beach, slipped off under her front so that even her friend would see nothing, never mind him. Neither troubled to oil, again to his disappointment, and when the brunette pulled a pink covered book from her bag and began to read this sharpened to frustration.

  Joe reasoned that they were unlikely to do anything interesting, at least not for some time, and decided to take another peak at the intellectual-looking blonde by the barrow. He moved back from the cliff top, keeping low among the bushes, then stopping abruptly at a sound. A movement caught his eye, white, presumably the girl’s dress, now among the bushes. Slipping into the concealment of a thick, low clump of gorse, he peered through the spiky stems.

  She was there, no more than twenty yards away and looking in the opposite direction. There was something in her hand, a piece of white tissue, molded nervously in her fingers as she looked around herself. She was biting her lip and making little treading motions with her feet, and Joe found his grin spreading wide.

  As if suddenly reaching a decision, she ducked down, tugging her dress up over shapely legs and a teardrop shaped bottom encased in white cotton panties. He swallowed, his hand going to his crotch as she braced her feet and stuck it out, the twin cheeks of her rear stretching out her panties, her pussy a sweet bulge between her thighs. She reached back, taking the waistband of her panties and pushing, exposing her bottom, the full cheeks flared, her bumhole a tiny dimple of pink flesh, her pussy lips pouting out towards him in a puff of golden hair. Taking a grip on her panty crotch, she tugged them forward, clear of her sex, and let go.

  Joe watched, his cock stiff, his mouth wide. Pale yellow pee gushed from her sex, a thick stream, so strong he could hear the pattering sound as it splashed on the ground. She was clearly embarrassed by what she was doing, glancing nervously around as her pee ran from her pussy, her dress and panties clutched tight in her hands. This made the sight all the better for Joe, as did the rude way her anal area had relaxed and pouted back to let the urine flow freely.

  There was plenty, gushing out until Joe thought he would come, only to die to a trickle and stop, leaving the last few drips hanging from her thick pussy hair. She wiggled, shaking off the drops and making her lovely bottom quiver in a delightful way, then dabbed the tissue quickly to herself. Joe shook his head, thoroughly pleased with himself. He had to come, and began to tug at himself through his trousers, hoping to make it before she fully covered herself and indifferent to the mess.

  He was frantic, expecting a quick covering of her bum and a hasty retreat. Instead she stayed still, squatting with her bottom stuck out, apparently listening. He kept wanking, sure the lovely view in front of him could last only so long. Her face was side on for a moment, and he saw that she was biting her lip and that her eyes were full of nervous excitement. Moving quickly, she shuffled forward, away from her pee pool, and knelt. With his mouth hanging wide, he watched as her hand found her pussy. Bare bottom stuck out, bumhole showing, fingers working in the wet flesh of her pussy, she began to masturbate.

  Joe watched enthralled, wishing he had the guts to just rush forward and stuff his straining erection up her ready hole. He knew he wouldn’t, but quickly unzipped himself and pulled it free, jerking at it as he watched her frig. Her head was back, her pretty hair jumping to her movements. With two sudden motions she jerked her dress up, over her breasts, then off, leaving her in nothing but panties and shoes. Once more she began to masturbate, now frantic, going down on all fours to leave Joe with what he considered the perfect view of a woman, crawling, from the rear, everything showing with her sex on offer and her tits swinging from her chest. She was supporting herself with one hand, frigging with the other. He could hear her breathing, then her moans, and with a long, sharp cry of pleasure she came, only for her ecstasy to break to sobs and then snivels as she collapsed into the grass.

  He was still staring, immobile, his eyes fixed to the lips of her sex, where they peeped out between her thighs, his hand sticky with the come that had erupted from his cock at the same moment she had climaxed. He gave no thought to her sudden change from ecstasy to misery, nor to why she had felt the need to masturbate among the bushes, reflecting only that the whole event bore out his conviction that the innocent-looking ones were often the most dirty.

  Lily dressed hurriedly, burning with shame and embarrassment for what she had done. Yet it had been impossible not to, despite her best efforts. She had been made to suck off a policeman, a man she had never met before, and she had taken his cock in her mouth and let him come over her face. Worse still, Ed had stripped her and fucked her in front of him, then added his own sperm to the mess. As the final indignity, she had come in front of them, actually masturbated herself to orgasm in front of two men who had deliberately degraded her.

  It was impossible to get out of her mind, and despite her best efforts to work she had found herself replaying the scene over and over, being groped, being told she had to suck, taking the stranger’s cock in her mouth, tasting it, feeling it swell, having her jeans and pants taken down, having her top pulled up, being entered by Ed. All of it was too much for her, even being felt up, never mind taking two men’s come in her face.

  She had done her best to push the awful thoughts away and to deny that it excited her, going up to sketch and photograph the Wythman barrow. A letter had arrived that morning, from the university, stating that a team from Exeter would be reopening the barrow immediately after the annual New Age festival. She was also invited to join the team, news that had thrilled her enough to push her terrible erotic thoughts away, at least for a while. She had determined to make a detailed record of the event, sure that turning her mind to her work would push away the horrid, ecstatic memory.

  It had, briefly, only to steal up on her after she had found herself desperate to pee. The shame and worry of taking down her knickers in the open had brought it all back and she had given in, cursing her own weakness even as she began to masturbate. She had thought of being made to do it by Ed, of his ordering her to show her bottom and pee while the horrid Jeff Perkins watched. She knew that he’d have made her strip, at least to her knickers, and with that thought had peeled her dress off, imagining them watching, gloating over her nudity and her burning red cheeks, readying their cocks for her body as she performed the most intimate of acts in full view.

  She had sunk to the ground with the thought of being taken fore and aft, Ed in her vagina, Jeff in her mouth, both laughing over her degradation as they used her, pumping into her body, their cocks erupting inside her. She had come at that, imagining the policeman’s sperm erupting in her face and remembering how it had felt for real, then collapsing in a sobbing heap on the ground, feeling thoroughly abused even though she had come under her own fingers with no coercion whatever.

  Now, decent once more, with her body shivering over the memory of her own behaviour, she walked back to where she had left her bag. Nobody had seen her, she was certain, yet a dirty little voice in the back of her head was wishing they had, and taken full advantage of her, taking her from behind as she knelt in a puddle of her own pee.

  With her mouth set in an angry frown she went back to her sketching, yet once more found it impossible to rid her mind of thoughts of Ed, albeit no longer sexual. At a pure, intellectua
l level she was desperate to be rid of him. She hated his right-wing views, his self-righteous morality, preaching supposedly Christian morals while happily abusing her. He saw her as his property, which she hated, yet which she found hard to deny. He was compelling, as hard, stern men had always been to her. She had lost her virginity to one of the worst bullies at her school, on her back in a pile of mouldering grass cuttings behind the sports pavilion. He had been as unpleasant as Ed, yet their relationship had lasted until she went to university. It had been much the same there, with one boyfriend from the town and another from the rugby club, both of whom had treated her as their private sex toy. Now it was Ed, and she felt a horrible certainty that she would be unable to turn him away.

  With her main sketch finished and annotated, she climbed the barrow, looking out to sea. The sun was bright, the last clouds low on the eastern horizon. St David’s Island appeared close, almost as if she could step on to it. The tide had turned and was beginning to run, the powerful currents tearing the water to white foam among the jumble of stacks to the west of the main island. Watching, she felt an urge to be there, her body whirled and washed in the cool, pure water, pulled away from Ed by an elemental force far beyond his coarse, bullying power. She turned with a sigh, feeling helpless and weak. Sitting among the grass, she began to sketch the scene.

  The quiet and beauty of the place began to work on her, Ed retreating to an irritating niggle at the back of her mind. After a while a spotty-faced youth who had passed her earlier walked back the way he had come, not even turning a glance in her direction. For a while she managed a genuine feeling of peace, only to be disturbed again as a head appeared above the edge of the barrow.

  Lily immediately recognised Nich, his striking red hair and intense expression unmistakable. She smiled, pleased to have somebody who shared her interest in the barrow, albeit from a strange, occult perspective. He was also the antithesis of Ed in many ways, which made the idea of associating immensely appealing.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he greeted her. ‘You are drawing the barrow?’

  ‘The view,’ Lily answered, ‘and the barrow. It’stobe opened, so I thought I’d make a record…’

  ‘Opened?’ Nich demanded. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Lily answered. ‘A letter came this morning from my university. A team from Exeter’s coming over.’

  ‘Is this for public viewing?’

  ‘No, it’s a research dig, but I have permission to help.’

  ‘Might I be there?’ Nich went on urgently. ‘I’ve made a great deal of research into the matter — possibly I could be of some help.’

  ‘I can certainly speak to Professor Cobb,’ Lily said. ‘I can see no reason for him to refuse, not if you have a specific interest.’

  ‘I do,’ he assured her, ‘I do. It’s a fascinating site, unique.’

  ‘There’s a similar barrow in Brittany.’

  ‘Empty, a shell set up for tourists, abandoned for thousands of years. When is this to happen?’

  ‘The day after this party. The council wouldn’t grant permission beforehand. You see, the Reverend Wilmot’s dig left a shored-up passage running through the centre. They didn’t want any of these New Age types getting in. Sorry, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘No, no, a sensible choice. I’m not offended. Have you read Wilmot’s notes? They’re in the local museum.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Really he was just an amateur. I think he was more interested in artefacts than pure research.’

  ‘As one would expect. Ha! Imagine his outrage if someone had desecrated his church!’

  ‘Well it’s not really the same…’

  ‘Why not? Both are temples, and if he feels that the shrine of his god should be free from desecration, then he should extend the same courtesy to Sigodin-Yth.’

  ‘Sigodin-Yth?’

  ‘The Wythman deity. You may have read the name in the copy of Laverack your boyfriend stole from me. On which subject, if it is in his house, he has clearly not registered it as an official customs seizure. Would it be at all possible that I might have it back?’

  ‘Well I’m not sure…’

  ‘Lily — I may call you Lily? Whatever our differences of view, as one serious student to another, I beg you to return it. It is rare, irreplaceable even.’

  ‘Yes, but Ed —’

  ‘Officer Gardner, I suspect, took it from motives of simple malice. He has probably forgotten its existence.’

  ‘Well, yes, I’m sure you’re right…’

  ‘You will return it, then? I would be immensely grateful.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Thank you, Lily, thank you. Perhaps now, if we have time to drop in at his house before his work finishes?’

  Five

  Violet frowned as she looked around her. The street was crowded, men pouring from the gates of the docks across the road, most in small groups or pairs, a few single. The masts of the two china-clay ships in port could be seen, rising above the dockside structures. Greyish white dust covered the ground, the roofs, those few trees she could see. It was a scene very different from the part of Tawmouth she knew, which was bright and merry, very much for the tourist trade. Knowing that the division had existed since Tawmouth became a popular spa town nearly two hundred years before did nothing to reduce the contrast, leaving her feeling out of place but also with a sense of adventure.

  She and Yasmin had begun their search by visiting Kieran Sullivan, the tattooist on the pier, a young man they knew, very much into pagan symbolism and Celtic art. He had known of no other tattooist in Tawmouth, but had pointed out that if some old guy operated in the dock area there was no reason he should have. They had walked to the docks, a matter of no more than a half-mile but completely unfamiliar territory.

  Plenty of people were looking at them and she was beginning to wish that she had worn a longer skirt and rather less jewellery, while she was sure her brilliant purple hair stood out like a beacon. Yasmin seemed unconcerned and had stopped a docker to ask about the existence of tattoo parlours. Violet waited, watching as the man shrugged and then pointed along the road. Yasmin thanked him and walked back.

  ‘He says he’s not sure but he thinks there’s a bloke somewhere called Exhibition Road who does it part-time. Could be our man.’

  ‘Could be,’ Violet agreed.

  ‘Tammy’s not more than twenty, she looks less,’ Yasmin went on. ‘She can’t have been much more than a kid when it was done, it’s so faded.’

  ‘So she goes to some dodgy backstreet place,’ Violet answered. ‘I had my Ianthe done in a place in Walthamstow, no questions asked. I was fifteen.’

  ‘I didn’t get any until I was eighteen, the Celtic bands on my arms. That was the week after I left home.’

  ‘Neat. So where’s this Exhibition Road?’

  ‘This way.’

  They set off, walking behind the docks until the end, where the quay ended to leave them beside the mud flats of the estuary. A terrace of once smart Victorian villas faced the water, with smaller roads leading between them up the hill. The third proved to be Exhibition Road, a twin line of two-storey houses set behind tiny front gardens, perfectly straight and ending against an iron fence. Walking up it, they gave each house a careful inspection, looking for anything that might advertise the presence of a tattooist. By the end they were looking down over the estuary, with Aldon Hill beyond and the shape of the Wythman clearly visible against the skyline. The fence proved to be the edge of the railway cutting. Violet gave a last glance to either side, expecting disappointment but finding a small printed sign in an upper window of one of the end houses advertising tattoos.

  ‘Here we are,’ she announced. ‘This has got to be the place.’

  Yasmin nodded and they walked to the door, knocked and stood back. For a moment nothing happened, and Violet was stepping back to leave when the door swung open, revealing an elderly man, quite bald, his bright-blue eyes looking quizzically at the two of t
hem.

  ‘Is it you who does the tattoos?’ Violet asked.

  He nodded, showing no great surprise, and ushered them in. They followed, catching the smell of dust and age as they crossed the threshold. Brown paint and worn, faded carpets reminded Violet of her grandmother’s house, but without the ever-present air of respectability.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ the old man asked. ‘Here, come in, sit down. No sense in rushing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Violet answered, accepting the ancient armchair to which he was gesturing. ‘We saw a really neat tattoo, and we were wondering if you had done it?’

  ‘More likely the young fellow on the pier,’ he answered.

  ‘I don’t do much now, and most of it’s pretty traditional: anchors and hearts and so on, not the sort of thing young girls like you would want, I shouldn’t imagine.’

  ‘I’m sure it was you,’ Yasmin answered. ‘My friend said it was done by a retired sailor, living behind the docks.’

  ‘That sounds like me,’ he answered. ‘I was a navy man in the war, then merchant marine. I’ve been retired twelve years now. Who’s your friend?’

  ‘Tammy, young girl, long black hair.’

  ‘Nobody like that. All mine are dockers or lads from the china-clay works, someone off the ships now and then. No young women.’

  ‘It would have been a while ago, but you’d remember her. She’s about my height, very curvy, unusual eyes, dark green.’

  ‘Curvier than you? Well, I’d remember that, but no, sorry. What was the tattoo?’

  ‘An octopus, in green, with red eyes and the arms twisting together. It’s really detailed, with the suckers and everything. It’s on her bum. Surely you remember?’

  ‘An octopus? On a young girl’s bottom? Why, certainly I’d remember. I wish I had, but I’m sorry, it must have been someone else.’